Childhood Is The World Of Miracle And

In The History Of Humanity There Are No Civilizations Or Cultures Which Fail To Manifest, In One Or A Thousand Ways, This Need For An Absolute That Is Called Heaven, Freedom, A Miracle, A Lost Paradise To Be Regained, Peace, The Going Beyond History... There Is No Religion In Which Everyday Life Is Not Considered A Prison; There Is No Philosophy Or Ideology That Does Not Think That We Live In Alienation.... Humanity Has Always Had A Nostalgia For The Freedom That Is Only Beauty, That Is Only Real; Life, Plenitude, Light.

Every Message Of Despair Is The Statement Of A Situation From Which Everybody Must Freely Try To Find A Way Out.

I Have Always Considered Imaginative Truth To Be More Profound, More Loaded With Significance, Than Every Day Reality... Everything We Dream About, And By That I Mean Everything We Desire, Is True (the Myth Of Icarus Came Before Aviation, And If Ader Or Bleriot Started Flying It Is Because All Men Have Dreamed Of Flight). There Is Nothing Truer Than Myth... Reality Does Not Have To Be: It Is Simply What Is.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.

Every Work Of Art (unless It Is A Psuedo-intellectualist Work, A Work Already Comprised In Some Ideology That It Merely Illustrates, As With Brecht) Is Outside Ideology, Is Not Reducible To Ideology. Ideology Circumscribes Without Penetrating It. The Absence Of Ideology In A Work Does Not Mean An Absence Of Ideas; On The Contrary It Fertilizes Them.